Perspective
by BookkeeperThe
Summary: Relationships are complicated. What you see depends on where you stand. Ianto, Jack, the Doctor.
1. Chapter 1

Notes: Post-VotD, technically AU. Completely separate from Damage Control; I am working on the sequel to that, but this is not it. Rated for some language, violence, and (later) mentions of suicide.

**-DW-**

Ianto's breath is knocked out of him as he is shoved to the side, out of the path of the laser blast. It is knocked out of him again when he hits the floor, having tripped over the pile of crates that he was pushed into. He doesn't wait to regain his breath before eliminating the source of the laser fire, one of the last enemies standing. Only when the vaguely humanoid being drops to the ground with a bullet in its head does Ianto take the time to look up at his savior.

His mind goes blank as he takes in the man (_alien_) who saved his life. Jealousy (_petty, over a lover who doesn't understand the concept of monogamy_) and hatred (_pointless, for a man who can defeat armies and topple governments_) are crushed under numbing shock that seizes his brain as he watches the (_unhealthily_) skinny frame stiffen, the (_falsely_) young face turning white while blood (_more orange than a human's_) begins to soak through the pinstriped suit.

Long-fingered (_artist's_) hands automatically go to the wound, and are immediately covered with blood. (A nasty, slippery voice in the back of Ianto's mind mutters something about symbolism, but he is too busy staring to pay it any heed.) Dark brown (_ancient_) eyes flicker downwards, and something like relief crosses the fine-featured (_handsome_) face –

The Doctor crumples.

**-DW-**

Jack drops the second-to-last attacker – he can't remember the species, started with a B, he thinks. He spares a moment to make sure that the alien is well and truly dead – he wouldn't put it past the Doctor to forget to mention that this particular species has a back up brain in their elbow, or some other method of surviving a headshot at close range – before leaping up to check on the others.

He turns just in time to see the alien level its weapon at Ianto.

The name of his subordinate (_friend comrade lover_) rips itself from his throat, far too late for a warning, just as the alien fires. His shout is lost in the melee, and the bolt of light courses toward Ianto – who isn't there anymore, thrust out of the way by a streak of brown. Jack feels a rush of relief (_loss is inevitable, but not Ianto, not yet_), quickly followed by horror (_not him, oh god, please not him_) as his oldest friend (_savior betrayer mentor_) staggers, looking as startled as Jack feels.

The Doctor's eyes (_dark, so dark, dark like memory and age and pain_) dart down to where the blood is already seeping through his suit and between his (_slender, beautiful_) fingers. Jack just has time to register something far more chilling than shock on the (_ghostly_) pale face before –

The Doctor collapses.

**-DW-**

**Pain.**

The Earth spins under his feet, hurtling around the sun, and the whole solar system moves with the turn of the galaxy, which itself is dragged on with the Universe, ever expanding towards oblivion, and he can _feel_ it, the steady march of entropy, and he can never stop knowing that _everything has its time and everything dies_, and he can never stop seeing _all that is, all that was, all that ever could be_ . . .

(One of the Bechi'ins is still standing, raising a gun towards Ianto Jones. If not interfered with, the energy bolt will reach the clever, brave young man in approximately 3.1292 seconds. The blast will be fatal.)

. . . and it's still not enough to drown out the screaming, the cries of everyone he couldn't save (_Adric and Katrina and Susan, Jabe and Gwyneth and Lynda-with-a-Y, Solomon and Astrid and Banakafalata, HumanDalekTimeLords and two thousand people on the replica Titanic_), couldn't help (_Rose's eyes are terrified and pleading, staring at him from her not-father's arms; later, she'll sob into her hands and his already shattered hearts will break all over again. The new confidence in Martha's step is paid for by a new hardness in her eyes; she'll never be an innocent again, never heal completely_), couldn't fix (_his best enemy bleeds out in his arms, madness still in his eyes even as the light leaves them. He has no idea who won in the end, and he doesn't even care_). Their voices, remembered and imagined, echo in his ears. _Doctor Grandfather Theta Father Doctor, save us help us dying falling burning __**save us**__ – !_

(He does the calculations in his head even as he starts to move. There's no way he'll be able to disable the Bechi'in or her weapon in time, but if he moves very, very fast he might just be able to knock Mr. Jones out of the way. He's good at fast. Maybe this time it will be enough.)

But even that can't fill the silence, the awful, terrible, _lonely_ silence where there used to be the susurration of a billion voices; the cold, dark emptiness inside his head. It hurts more than the memories (_flame and screaming and the smell of burnt flesh, warm orange skies turned black with smoke, silver-leaved trees burning, burning, burning, the world ending by his own hand_). It hurts more than the fear of the future (_nothing lasts forever, except perhaps him, and if Jack is the Face of Boe then he's already seen him die, and he can't shake the thought that with the Council gone there's nothing to stop him from regenerating again and again and again, and oh, Rassilon, he doesn't want to live forever_). He's the Lord of Time, and he knows how to live in the present, but the present **hurts**.

(He hurtles into Ianto Jones, Torchwood agent, one-man clean-up crew, Jack's friend and lover, altogether decent man, just as the Bechi'in squeezes the trigger. The young human falls with a grunt, and suddenly the ever-present pain is physical.)

There's silence in his head and screaming in his ears and blood on his hands, and it's **real**, not a flashback or a hallucination or a metaphor, and now the screaming is stopping but the silence isn't (_never will, not ever_), and the blood on his hands is his (_for once_), and he sees that and just has time to think –

_Good._

(The Doctor falls.)


	2. Chapter 2

"Doctor!"

Jack's anguished shout (_desperate plea_) seems to shake Ianto out of whatever stupor he's in, and he jerks into action just as Jack reaches them.

The Doctor is still conscious, but deathly pale and bleeding heavily from a wound on his left side, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Ianto has already stripped off his jacket and is trying to use it to stop the bleeding. Jack grabs one wrist – freezing (_like a child left out in the cold_), but that's normal, the Time Lord's body temperature is naturally lower – and feels the odd double pulse (_two hearts, one for his friends and one for the Universe, nothing left for himself when they're shattered again and again_). It's strong and steady, if racing from adrenaline.

"Doctor?" Jack puts a hand to his (_pale, exhausted_) face, trusting Ianto to do what can be done for the wound. He needs to keep the Doctor awake and talking, or else he'll be completely at loss. "Doctor, look at me." He inserts the oft-used note of command into his voice, and it proves effective when the Doctor's pain-glazed eyes (_hot, shallow pain from the hole in his side, but beneath that is something cold and ancient and deep_) focus on him.

"Jack," the Doctor gasps out. "Is Ianto – " He breaks off with a sharp intake of breath as Ianto shifts his grip.

"Sorry," the younger (_so much younger, compared to Jack's centuries, but even Jack feels young next to the age and pain and knowledge of the Doctor_) man mutters. The Doctor's eyes shift to him, and his face breaks into a shaky (_false hollow painful_) grin.

"Ianto Jones!" he says, his voice strained but still clinging to the veneer of cheerfulness. "Alright, are you?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you." He is looking at the Doctor with some mixture of shock, confusion, awe, and guilt. Jack can't blame him, when the Doctor is laying there broken and bleeding (_he always is, under the surface_) and asking after the well-being of someone he's known for less than a day.

"What about you, Doctor?" Jack says, bringing the dark brown eyes back to him. "How badly are you hurt? What's been hit?" He hacked into UNIT records decades ago, but he didn't find much beyond 'two hearts, lower body temperature, aspirin allergy.'

"Just grazed me," says the Doctor with a grimace. He attempts to sit up, but falls back with a hiss. "I'll be fine." (_As if he ever is._)

"The bleeding's stopping, but he's lost a lot already," says Ianto (_he doesn't know the half of it_), voice laced with uncertainty, looking to Jack for instructions.

"Blood replenishes," says the Doctor through gritted teeth, face lined with pain (_the pain is always in his eyes but it so rarely shows on his face. The look is disturbing in how well it fits._). "I heal quickly." (_Never did true words shape such a lie._) "Give me a day or two, I'll be –" He pushes himself up again, slower this time. A grunt of pain escapes him, but he manages not to fall again. "– right as rain."

Ianto eyes him doubtfully (_clever, insightful Ianto. If he can see through the Doctor it's no wonder he can see through Jack_) and Jack raises a skeptical eyebrow, opening his mouth to protest. His earpiece beeps before he gets the chance.

_Gwen!_ How could he have forgotten Gwen and the others?

"It's Gwen. _Don't_ let him move!" His order is directed at Ianto, but his glare is on the Doctor, who shoots him a half-hearted sour look. Jack ignores it and flips on the earpiece. "Gwen! Are you alright?"

"_Fine, Jack. What about you?"_

"Mostly. The Doc's been hit, but not too badly. He says he'll be alright. What have you got?"

"_It looks like some sort of weapons laboratory. Those ray-gun things? They're new. Experimental."_

"How so?" asks Jack, his stomach plummeting. Of course the Doctor could never just get hit by a plain old ray-gun. It would have to be some sort of mad scientist prototype. (_The Universe has no mercy for its savior._)

"_There's an extra signal layered in with the laser. But don't worry; Tosh says we should be fine. Looks like it only affects telepaths. Makes them relive old memories or something."_

Ice floods his veins even as Ianto's alarmed cry reaches his ears. He spins in time to see the Doctor's eyes go distant and wide with terror, the last of his color draining from his face.


	3. Chapter 3

Ianto glances over the Doctor as Jack turns away. He tries to keep his examination surreptitious, but judging by the look of tired exasperation, tinged with amusement, that he receives, he's not very successful. The Doctor looks oddly under-dressed with his jacket off and his tie undone. His color has returned somewhat already (alien, Ianto reminds himself) and in the gloomy light of the warehouse the stains on his shirt aren't instantly recognizable as blood. With his bedraggled hair, rumpled clothes, and slightly sickly pallor, he looks more like an accountant who overdid it at the office Christmas party than a powerful alien who saves planets on a daily basis.

The irritated grimace that he gives his ruined shirt only reinforces the image.

"There's another one for the bin, then," he says with a sigh, more to himself than to Ianto. "Oh, and the tie, too!" His voice and his expression are dismayed, and he resembles nothing more than a little boy who's torn his favorite T-shirt. "I _liked_ this tie –" He breaks off suddenly, his face going very, very still.

"Doctor?" asks Ianto uncertainly. The Doctor turns to look at him, his eyes very, very dark, and Ianto has never seen anything more alien (_because the Weevils might be alien, but at least they're mortal, and Jack might be immortal, but at least he's human)_. He shivers.

"Something's wrong," the Doctor says, all flippancy gone from his voice. Ianto already knows that the Doctor is nine hundred years old (_at least_), but this is the first time he really _believes_ it. Then suddenly those ancient, alien eyes aren't focused on Ianto anymore, aren't focused on anything at all, and something really _is_ wrong, because even when the Doctor was bleeding on the floor he didn't look _afraid_ –

"Jack!" Ianto shouts desperately as the Doctor's eyes widen and his face goes white a sheet. Jack is at his side at an instant, Gwen's call forgotten as he grasps the Doctor's thin shoulders.

"Doctor? Doctor, can you hear me?"

Gwen's voice is echoing faintly from the earpiece. Ianto calls her on his, keeping his eyes on his boss as he continues addressing his friend (_mentor idol lover?_), his voice growing tenser and tenser as the Doctor fails to respond.

"_Ianto! What's going on? I was just talking to Jack and then –"_

"Something's wrong with the Doctor."

"Ianto!" says Jack sharply. The Doctor's eyes have closed, and he's beginning to tremble minutely. Some sort of shock, perhaps? (_But that doesn't make any sense; this man has faced down Cybermen and werewolves and God knows what else. Why would something as simple as getting shot shake him? It didn't; a moment ago he was complaining about his ruined tie._) "Tell Gwen and the others to meet us back at the Hub, and make sure to bring all the information on those weapons!"

"Did you hear that, Gwen?"

"_Meet you at the Hub; bring all the info on the ray-guns; got it. But –"_

"Ianto, I need your help getting him into the SUV!"

"Sorry, I have to go. I'll explain later." Once he has some idea of what the hell is going on.

He snaps the phone shut and comes to stand beside Jack, who has adopted the grim-faced, tight-jawed look which means that he is barely controlling his own anger and fear.

"We need to get him back to the Hub," says Jack, sounding very much like he only just came to that decision himself. "I'm not sure how bad this is going to get, but we want to be somewhere secure."

Ianto pushes all the questions he has (_What is 'this,' exactly? When you say 'bad,' does that mean for us? For the Doctor? For the planet? Do we want him at the Hub for his safety, or for everyone else's?_) to the back of his mind as Jack scoops the Doctor into his arms as if he weighs nothing at all. Which, judging by sight alone, may be close to the truth (_he's skin and bones; the man who saves the planet on a regular basis looks like he hasn't eaten in a week_). Held against Jack's broad chest, he looks thinner (_more fragile_) than ever.

Jack cuts a brisk pace back to the SUV, and Ianto trots to keep up. The Doctor's trembling is increasing. By the time they reach the vehicle, his tremors have reached the point where they look physically damaging, and his face is creased in pain. Jack places him gently in the backseat and climbs in after him, leaving Ianto to drive. He doesn't mind. It gives him an excuse not to look at Jack (_or the Doctor) _while he asks his questions.

"What's going on, Jack?"

"Those weapons weren't just lasers. There was some extra signal that only affects telepaths."

"And the Doctor's telepathic?" Ianto tries not to sound as disturbed as he feels. Has the Doctor been inside his mind? Has he heard all the things he thought about him? (_Did he still risk his life to save him?_)

"Only a bit – with the TARDIS, mostly, but it looks like it was enough."

"So what's it doing to him?"

"It's making him relive old memories." Jack's tone is grim and bleak, with an undercurrent of fear. Ianto is very, very glad that he does not have to see his expression.

"Ah. And how bad is that, exactly?"

"On a scale of one to ten? Twenty."

Ianto never finds out if Jack would have told him more, because at that moment they are interrupted by an unfamiliar noise. The only thing Ianto can think to compare it to is a splintering harp, all broken chords and dissonance, but that doesn't even come close to describing the utterly alien sound. For all its strangeness, however, something about it seems to speak to Ianto on a fundamental level, bypassing knowledge and going straight to understanding.

The Doctor is begging.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes: So, this chapter contains a reference to a certain Fox TV movie. Just to be clear, my personal opinion on that movie is that it is canon so far as the Doctor's regeneration and the Master's "death" is concerned, but not so much when it comes to confusing bits about eyeballs and human/alien compatibility. (Since two individuals of different species cannot, by definition, have fertile offspring, and the Doctor obviously had children at some point.)**

**-DW-**

Jack answers Ianto's questions, half glad and half annoyed at the distraction. He holds the Doctor as steady as he can, trying to slow the tremors that are the most immediate problem and to ignore the all-too-obvious evidence of a deeper one. It doesn't work very well, and he finds himself mentally cataloguing it: circles under his eyes, which, for a Time Lord, would take weeks without sleep to develop; an unhealthy skinniness which would take even longer without a good meal (_and without anyone holding him close enough to notice_); an almost-healed mark on the side of his neck from what was once a nasty wound, which means that whatever caused it wasn't something that the TARDIS could fix (_or the Doctor hadn't bothered to heal himself_).

Jack is jerked from both his examination and his conversation when the Doctor begins to speak – no, to plead. He's twisting uselessly in Jack's strong grasp, sobbing incoherently, and it takes Jack a moment to realize that it's not just muddled, but truly incomprehensible. The Doctor is speaking Gallifreyan. At least, Jack assumes that it's Gallifreyan; he's never actually heard the language, not even during that year on the Valiant.

"Doctor!" he says, putting as much force into his voice as he can. To his immense relief, the Doctor's struggles cease at once, and large brown eyes flutter open. They're wide and terrified, glazed with pain and fear and still not looking at anything that anyone else can see, but at least he's responding. "Doctor, it's me. It's Jack. I need you to speak English, alright?" _C'mon, Doc, work with me here._

"Jack?" the Doctor rasps out, eyes sliding in and out of focus.

"Yep," he answers, trying to keep his voice light. Showing the concern (_fear terror panic_) that he's feeling won't help the Doctor's mental state (_or his own_). "Captain Jack Harkness, God's gift to the Universe." (_Head of Torchwood Three, Defender of the Earth, Fact, Watcher of the Universe's Watchman_.)

Ianto gives a snort from the front seat, but the Doctor merely whimpers as another shudder wracks his body, his eyes losing focus again.

"Doctor?" he says, worried that the Time Lord will pass out again, and hears a bit of his anxiety (_desperation_) leak into his voice despite his best efforts. The Doctor shudders again, but manages to drag himself back to relative lucidity.

"Jack, it's not safe," he pants out (_it's never safe, not for him; even when he beats the monsters there are demons lurking within his own soul_). "It's affecting my mind; I can't –" He cuts himself off with a gasp of pain as they hurtle around a particularly sharp corner and Jack is forced to tighten his grip.

"Easy, Doctor," says Jack, trying to keep his friend from hurting himself (_as impossible as trying to keep him from helping or caring or running_). "We'll take care of you. It's going to be alright." (_Empty platitudes for an empty man_.)

"Jack." The Doctor's eyes are clear and alert, for the moment, but deep and dark as a starless sky (_he gives away all his light, and is left with only shadows_). "Do whatever you have to; just don't let me hurt anyone."

"I won't. I promise." He's not sure whether he's more concerned (_frightened_) about the damage that the Doctor could do if he honestly tried to hurt someone, or about the damage it would do to the Doctor if he succeeded (_not sure how many pieces of his soul he can lose before the whole thing collapses_).

The Doctor's eyes slide out of focus once more.

**-DW-**

_-_

- it's not just in his ears anymore, it's flowing into his mouth and his nose and throat and it's cutting off his air and filling up his lungs and he can't _breathe_ and he's drowning, drowning, drowning – someone's talking, urgent and frightened, and it sounds important, it sounds like Jack, but it can't be Jack, because he's –

- below decks, but the Doctor can hear him anyway, screaming and screaming and screaming, and he's trying to keep quiet, dear, precious Jack, because he knows that the Doctor breaks a bit more with every cry, but the Master is very, very good at causing pain –

- the Master is –

- the Master is –

- standing nervously behind him, just a boy, waiting for his turn as the Doctor steps up to the Untempered Schism and then he's looking into it and it's supposed to be forever but it feels like the death of everything and it's his own screams in his ears and it _burns_ – falling into the Eye of Harmony and the Doctor's stretching out his brand new hand but he can't reach him, can't save him – _fading_ _bleeding dying_, and no, no, please, _please_ no, he can't be alone again, he can't bear the silence, the emptiness where –

- his planet burns, burns, burns, and so does he, so does his _mind hearts soul_, and his people (_children friends siblings rivals lovers grandchildren_) scream inside his head as everything he ever loved (_hated fought rejected_) crumbles into dust and it's his fault, (_always, always_) his fault, he isn't _good strong brave fast clever_ enough to save –

- Adric, and all his explanations sound empty to his own ears when all he can think is _he was just a child, just a boy; he only wanted my approval_ –

- Reinette, and he's actually glad that Mickey's there to lead Rose away, because he won't, he can't let her see him cry –

- Solomon, and the grief and guilt and helpless fury rip themselves from his throat in a selfish flood of suicidal despair –

- the Master, his oldest friend(_enemy brother rival_), poor, mad Koschei who doesn't realize that the game has long since ended, that the Doctor won, broke all the rules and killed all the players and has nothing to show for it but two shattered hearts and head full of silence and ashes –

- ashes, ashes, they all fall down, one after another like dominoes, tumbling down around him, terrible Daleks and almighty Time Lords and fantastic humans and the Racnoss and the Cybermen and the Family of Blood, allies and enemies alike, and he is a curse and a god and a demon –

- but he's not, he's not, he's not; he's a man, just a man, just one (_broken shattered hollow_) man, sobbing and bleeding and dying, drowning in the screams and the silence, in the fire and the ice, and every breath is filled with smoke and blood and pain, and _ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts _–

The Doctor falls.


	5. Chapter 5

"It's alright, Doctor; it's alright; you're safe."

Jack's words are just as useless as they are desperate. Ianto feels sick as he watches the Doctor sob, twisting against the restraints which pin him to the autopsy table. His frantic babbling is shifting between languages, too many to count. Ianto can only catch the odd phrase here and there – Jack's name amongst a few words of English, and "angel" and "time" in a flow of fluent French. The other languages are completely unrecognizable to him – there's a bit of that musical, flowing sound that he was speaking in SUV, but others are more human-sounding, and one is harsh and chilling, laced with hatred. Jack said that the Doctor had some translating device – whatever it is, it's obviously just as broken as its owner.

"His pulse is going mad," says Owen over the Doctor's incoherent words. "Even with two hearts it should be fairly regular."

"How do we help him?" snaps Jack, and Ianto flinches as the Doctor lets out a particularly anguished cry. Tosh said that the effects should wear off in an hour or so, but it's possible that the Doctor's body, and his sanity, won't last that long.

"I don't know!" Owen snaps back. "If he were human I'd sedate him, but without knowing how his metabolism works –"

"Most human drugs would kill him," Jack interjects, gritting his teeth with frustration.

"Yeah. Great. See, that's why I hate treating aliens."

A new sound cuts through the Doctor's sobs, the shrill peal of an alarm. Owen grabs the device which he's using to monitor the Doctor's vitals, and swears loudly.

"Jack, you need to get out of here, right now."

"What?" demands Jack, sounding more terrified than Ianto has ever heard him. "Why? What's happening?"

"You're emotionally involved; you'll just be in the way. Get out. _Now!_"

Incredibly, Jack obeys, perhaps spurred by the rarely-heard note of command in Owen's voice.

"Ianto, hold him down," Owen orders, pulling open drawers and searching through them urgently.

"What does that alarm mean?" asks Ianto, even as he takes hold of the Doctor's (_thin, fragile_) shoulders and forces them back onto the table. He tries desperately to ignore the alien (_terrified broken heartrending_) words which are being spoken right beside his ear.

"Nothing, probably just a computer malfunction."

"Then why –?"

"Because Jack wouldn't have let me do this." Owen pulls a syringe from the final drawer, and plunges it into the Doctor's leg without another word. Immediately, his eyes roll back in his head and he goes limp. Owen calmly checks his vitals before turning off the alarm and explaining further. "Multi-species sedative. Couldn't be sure it would work, but he would have torn himself apart if he kept on like that. Whatever's going on in his head is still happening, but at least his body should be fine."

The Doctor groans, his eyelids fluttering, and begins to mumble under his breath.

"_Shit_," hisses Owen. "He must already be metabolizing it. I'll get Jack down here, maybe he can get through."

Ianto stares down at the Doctor. It's almost surreal to think that this man (_alien hero rival_) saved his life. It's a bit surreal to think that this person, whimpering pathetically as he returns to consciousness, is capable of saving anything. Ianto doesn't even know why he's still here – Owen doesn't need him (_Jack certainly doesn't_), and there are other things to do to clean up from today's mission – but he can't help but feel responsible, just a bit (_a lot_). It's not his fault, not really, but after so long wishing ill towards the Doctor . . . well. Who wouldn't feel guilty?

Distantly, he can hear Owen lying through his teeth: "_He went into cardiac arrest, but we got him back and he seems calmer. Try not to agitate him."_ An instant later Jack is down the stairs, oblivious to Ianto's presence as he comes to stand beside the Doctor, who by now is staring unseeingly at the ceiling, choking on his tears.

"Hey, Doc," Jack says, taking the Doctor's hand. Ianto can't tell which of them is trembling more badly. "You gave us a scare."

"Jack?" the Doctor rasps, his glazed, unfocused eyes flickering towards him. "No, no, you can't be Jack; Jack's dead . . ." He suddenly spits a string of that harsh, alien language, furious and terrible, and Ianto jumps. "No, he's not, not anymore; he's – gah!" He jerks away from Jack, cringing in pain and twisting against the restraints. "_Wrong!_" he gasps out.

Ianto doesn't know the significance of the word, but Jack lets go of the Doctor's hand and backs away from the table, looking as though he's been slapped.

"Jack?" The Doctor has stopped trying to flee, and his voice is small and shaky and uncertain. (_He sounds like a child, frightened, alone. Is that how Jack sees him, all the time?_) Jack approaches him cautiously, and the Doctor gives a strangled sob when he doesn't receive and immediate response. "Jack, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry; I didn't want him to hurt you! I tried to distract him; I swear I did, but he knows, he knows that it breaks me whenever you die, whenever you scream –"

"Doctor," Jack sighs (_it sounds like a prayer, a plea, an apology_). "It's alright. I know you tried. I forgive you."

But the Doctor still isn't seeing him, isn't hearing him. He's muttering in that musical language again, tossing his head back and forth. Jack struggles to keep his skull from banging painfully against the table, and finally looks up.

"Ianto!" he says, as if registering his presence for the first time. Still, his grin is relieved and grateful, his eyes warm, and Ianto can't help but snap to attention – just the way Jack does whenever the Doctor looks his way. (_They're strays begging for scraps, the both of them. At least Ianto gets the occasional night of undivided attention; Jack is lucky if he gets a smile which isn't faked._) "Can you –"

Whatever he's going to ask is cut off when the Doctor's words suddenly increase in volume and vehemence, making them both leap back in alarm. He's fighting the restraints as he rages against some unseen enemy, his eyes burning, his teeth bared – he looks like a demon, a demigod, a force of nature personified, and his _voice_ – the words pouring from his mouth are like poison, like hellfire, like nothing Ianto has ever heard –

And then it's over, as suddenly as it began. The Doctor collapses back onto the table, small and pale and shivering once more.

His ragged, pitiful sobs echo in the sudden silence.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing the Doctor is (_always_) aware of is the pain.

There is physical pain, in his side from some partly-healed wound, in his wrists and ankles from who knows what, and in his head from stress and exhaustion and the Fixed Point which should be terrifying but is somehow familiar and safe. Worse, though – far worse – is the raw flood of memories that hasn't stopped (_never stops_), despite the psychic signal releasing its hold on him. All his shields have been shattered, and he can't even begin to pick up the fragments, not again, not now; he can't even pull himself together enough to figure out where he is –

Wait a moment. Wrists. Ankles. _Hurt cut bleeding_ – he's been restrained. He _is_ restrained. Why is he –?

Daleks. Has to be. They've captured him; they'll want his battle plans, access to Time Lord technology – no. No no no no no no no, this is too subtle for them, a psychic signal isn't their style – besides, the Time War's over; he ended it; ended everything in fire and tears and blood – the Master. This is a new game; a new torment; breaking his body and killing his friends and destroying the only home he has left isn't enough, it hasn't broken him (_as if there is anything inside him that isn't shattered already_), so let's strap him down and go inside his head and twist his mind until it cracks –

But that's not right either. There's a hand on his cheek and it's hot, human (_burning_) hot.

He forces his eyes open, chokes back the sobs that he has barely been registering. There's a face hovering above him, a worried, frightened face – he closes his eyes again, with a new pang of shame and dread. He can't deal with worry right now; can't calm any fears; can't even calm himself. Whoever's out there probably needs his help – yes, he can hear them calling now, a real voice mingling with the memories that he can no longer control.

"Doctor?"

(_"My Doctor," says the Bad Wolf, while a child burns and kills and dies for him._)

"Doctor, you with us?"

(_"Oh, Doctor! So lonely, so very, very alone," says the uncrowned queen, not flinching away but reaching out to his pain, drawing him closer without realizing that she can only leave him even lonelier in the end._)

"C'mon, Doc, I need you to look at me."

(_"Doctor!" dozens, hundreds of voices cry, children and friends, soldiers and politicians. "What do we do?" they ask, angry and demanding, terrified and pleading, all of them frightened, all of them depending on him, and he would give anything and everything to keep them safe, but he has nothing, nothing except a false smile and a hasty plan and a desperate hope that maybe this time this time __**this time **__nobody will die._)

The voice above him sighs, the hand is pulled away, and his breath hitches in an overwhelming rush of _shame relief dread._ He's let them down, and he's so, so sorry, but maybe they'll leave him now; maybe they'll hate him like they should; maybe they'll find someone who can actually help them, who won't just leave death and ashes in his wake . . . .

But they're not leaving. The hands are back, strong and gentle, running through his hair with such tenderness (_he doesn't deserve it_), and now there's another pair of hands, hesitant and awkward, fumbling with the straps to release his wrists and ankles. He finds himself pulled into an embrace as he automatically curls in on himself, and then the voice is back, not pleading this time but soft, reassuring.

"It's alright, Doc. It's over. You're safe."

He can feel himself shaking as he huddles into the human who's holding him. Distantly, he registers that this is the Fixed Point which has been grating at his senses, pounding at his head and sending little shivers of unease up his spine – but it's also a person, a friend despite the fact that he can't seem to recall its name at the moment, and it is so, so warm and kind and soothing (_he has been cold and alone and hurting for so, so long_) . . . .

He doesn't have the strength to protest when new hands – not the strong ones of the Fixed Point or the awkward ones which released him – run over his wrists and ankles and side with clinical efficiency. He can't even contain a pathetic whimper as those same hands peel back his eyelids and shine a torch into his eyes. He does not have the strength to resist as the Fixed Point gathers him up in his arms and moves him to someplace soft, to refuse the comfort which he knows he doesn't deserve, to suppress the sobs which tear themselves from his throat.

He almost doesn't have the strength to hate himself for his weakness.

Almost.


	7. Chapter 7

The Doctor's wracking sobs eventually give way to whimpers, and then to soft but irregular breathing as he falls into a fitful slumber. Jack sits with him on the sofa, calming him when he begins to mutter and twitch in his sleep, feeling his alien cold seep through the layers of fabric between them, repeating a desperate mantra in his head.

_He's fine. He's always fine. He's fine, he's fine, he's fine . . . ._

Physically, Owen has assured him that there is nothing wrong with the Doctor – nothing that a bit of time a few good meals won't fix, anyway. His wrists are cut from the restraints, the wound in his side isn't fully healed yet, and he's suffering from sleep deprivation and mild malnutrition, but _he'll be fine, he __**is**__ fine, he's always fine . . . ._

Except when he's not (_which is all the time_). Except when he fakes a smile as they turn away and then starts running, starts running and doesn't stop, not even to eat or sleep or take care of himself. Except when he gets hit by some goddamn alien energy beam and is forced to suffer through every horror he has seen in his long life condensed into a single, gut-wrenching hour, only to emerge from it and look at Jack with terror and confusion and no recognition at all.

_He's not fine_.

The Doctor is not (_ever_) fine, but hopefully once he wakes up he'll at least be functioning. Hopefully the way he's clinging to Jack, probably against all his natural instincts, is a good sign. Hopefully . . . .

"Sir?"

Ianto's voice breaks through his thoughts and makes him jump. The Doctor whimpers at the movement, but doesn't wake.

"Sorry, sir," says Ianto softly, looking uncomfortable. "I just came to see if you wanted anything."

"Oh. Um." Jack tries to kick his worry-fogged mind into gear. He wants (_Gwen's bodyheartsense theDoctor's passiondangerbrilliance Ianto's loveyoutheverything_). . . . "Coffee. And a blanket," he adds, feeling the Doctor shiver.

"Right away, sir."

Ianto returns a few minutes later, and Jack musters up a grateful smile which isn't forced in the least.

"Thanks, Ianto," he says, and means it.

"You're welcome," says Ianto, setting down the coffee within Jack's reach. Instead of handing him the blanket, however, he surprises him by draping it carefully over the Doctor's sleeping form. When he steps back his face is carefully controlled, but Jack knows him well enough to see the traces of _compassion guilt apology._

"It's not your fault, what happened."

"He saved my life," says Ianto, and he may be fairly good at hiding his emotions, but he is still so, so young, and Jack has a lot of practice with masks. The young man is completely distraught, thrown into turmoil by the self-sacrifice that the Doctor doesn't even think twice about. "He could have died. He could still be –"

"He'll be fine," says Jack firmly, because he can't handle the alternative right now. Ianto seems to understand (_he usually does_), and nods in agreement after a moment's hesitation. "Look, risking his life – it's just what the Doctor does. He'd have done the same for a total stranger."

"But I'm not a stranger," protests Ianto. "I'm a–" (_rival enemy aggressor_) "—I was unpleasant to him. I hated him."

"I know," says Jack with a shrug, though he notes the past-tense with approval. "A lot of people hate him." He hesitates before adding this next, but decides that Ianto has earned his honesty. "I did, at one point."

Ianto's gaze shoots up from where it's been fixed ashamedly on the ground. He looks shocked, and Jack offers a rueful smile.

"We had a falling out. Just a misunderstanding, really." That's a lie, but there's no need to jeopardize Ianto's new sympathy by going into the Doctor's old mistakes. "We're over it now." (_Except when psychic signals tear open more than one old wound; the Doctor's raw, panicked reaction to him __**stung**__, far more than he had expected it to._) "The point is, the Doctor doesn't hate people who hate him."

Ianto nods thoughtfully, casting another glance at the Doctor.

"I understand, sir," he says, and Jack believes him. Ianto is clever (_brilliant incredible wonderful_) like that. "I'll make sure there's tea ready when he wakes up."

"Yeah, I think that's a good idea. Thanks."

Ianto nods once more, and is gone.

With nothing to distract him, Jack becomes acutely aware of the increasing numbness in his arm, and the uncomfortable boniness of the Doctor's lanky frame which has it pinned. If he could just shift him for a moment . . . . Slowly, he slides his free hand beneath the Doctor's shoulder, and eases him away from the couch as gently as he can. He winces a little as the Doctor grumbles in his sleep, and breathes a sigh of relief when he extracts his arm.

The Doctor's eyes flutter open. Jack freezes, holding his breath as they flicker over the table, the couch, then up to meet his. There's confusion, and fear, and pain, but also (_oh, please, don't let him be imagining it_) a spark of recognition.

"Doctor?" he says carefully (_slowly gently softly; he seems ready to bolt at any sudden movement_).

The Doctor frowns, takes a shaky breath.

". . . Jack?"

"Hey, Doc," says Jack, smiling in relief even as his heart breaks and his stomach lurches at the uncertainty in the Doctor's voice and face and eyes. "How're you doing?"

"I . . ." He trails off, glancing around the Hub apprehensively. "Where am I?"

"Torchwood."

The Doctor goes white, and Jack remembers, too late, that the Time Lord does not associate 'Torchwood' with _home duty friends_ as Jack does, but rather with _hostility terror loss._

"No, different Torchwood," he says earnestly, grasping the Doctor's (_too thin_) shoulders and trying to quell the panic which is quickening his breathing and sending new tremors through his body. "It's my Torchwood; it's different; it's safe, Doctor, I promise."

"Your . . . ?" The Doctor blinks, shakes himself, swallows hard. It's a visible effort to compose himself, but his eyes still aren't quite focusing, his voice still wavering. "Oh. Yes. Your Torchwood. You said. That was . . . that's why . . ." He shudders, his eyes sliding shut again, and gives a strangled sob.

"It's alright, Doc," says Jack, wrapping his arms around his trembling friend. He's lost track of how many times he's said those words today (_and of who he's trying to convince_). "It's going to be alright, just rest."

The Doctor buries his face in Jack's shoulder, gives a few more choking sobs, and sleeps.


	8. Chapter 8

The Doctor wakes a few more times over the course of the evening. It's always for only a minute or so, but he is more lucid each time, and Ianto can see Jack growing more and more hopeful. Finally, when the others have all left and Ianto is replacing the fifth ice-cold, untouched cup of tea, the Doctor opens eyes which are bright and clear, gives a startled yelp, and falls off the couch.

Jack, who has been dozing himself, jerks awake.

"You okay, Doc?" he asks, bending to help him to his feet. The Doctor bats his hands away impatiently, straightening his rumpled suit and assuming an expression of affronted dignity. He looks exactly like a cat who has botched a landing, trying to pretend that it was his idea all along.

"I'm fine," he huffs, smoothing his tie. "What am I doing on your couch?" he asks, frowning at the offending piece of furniture. He has asked some version of this question every time he woke up, but where before it was laced with varying amounts of fear and uncertainty, now there's only bewilderment, and a touch of irritation. "I didn't let you buy me a drink, did I? Because in that case you really ought to keep a closer eye on your pubs; alcohol shouldn't affect me like that . . . ."

"You don't remember what happened?" Jack questions, sounding cautious but not surprised.

"No, I –" He stops and seems to take stock of his situation, glancing down at the almost-healed cuts on his wrists, feeling gingerly at his side. Ianto holds his breath, not sure what he's hoping for. "Oh," the Doctor says softly, shallow indignation evaporating in an instant and leaving him looking very old (_weary exhausted worn_). His gaze flickers to Ianto, but it holds none of the _resentment triumph blame_ that Ianto expected (_would have felt in his place_). Instead, there's something which almost looks like . . . .

. . . no. It can't be – he can't possibly –

But the Doctor is already breaking eye contact, turning back to Jack before Ianto can determine whether what he saw in his eyes was really (_it __**can't**__ have been_) shame.

"I'm so sorry, Jack," he says, and there's no mistaking it now – his _guilt shame self-loathing_ is written all over his (_still pale, still sickly_) face.

"What for?" asks Jack, sounding as startled as Ianto feels.

"I've been – I said things . . ." The Doctor trails off, shifting uncomfortably and avoiding their eyes.

"You've been sick," says Jack firmly, clapping a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "No one blames you for that."

_He does,_ Ianto realizes with a jolt. The Doctor has been through hell in the past few hours, nearly driven mad from the pain of reliving old traumas, and he's blaming himself for causing other people trouble. The concept is completely absurd. It would almost be funny if it weren't so heartbreakingly sad.

"You saved my life, sir," says Ianto, unable (_unwilling_) to keep his silence any longer, "and you were" (_broken exposed tortured_) ". . . hurt. I should be the one apologizing."

"Oh, you have nothing to apologize for, Mr. Jones!" says the Doctor brightly, all guilt suddenly chased from his expression by a toothy, blinding grin. "The world isn't quite ready to get along without you yet, I should think." He bounces cheerfully on the balls of his feet, but the effect is rather ruined when he pales and sways.

"Doctor!" says Jack with alarm, reaching out to steady him.

"I'm fine," the Doctor says quickly, stepping back and out of reach. "Just a bit light-headed, that's all."

Jack pulls back, eyeing him skeptically.

"Ianto," he says abruptly. "Find us some dinner, can you? The Doctor and I need to talk."

The pain is contained again, allowing him to function, to smile, to do more than whimper like a child and worry Jack. He can still (_always_) feel it, though, lapping at the edges of his mind, catching at his voice as he apologizes, making his grin feel brittle as he brushes away Mr. Jones' entirely unnecessary guilt. No need for anyone else to be hurt on his account.

Speaking of which, that bounce probably wasn't the best idea, because now Jack is _looking_ at him, clearly not buying his (admittedly weak) excuse. Jack is nearly two hundred years old (_the Doctor doesn't know his exact age, and that feels like a failure, somehow_), and right now every one of his years is showing in his gaze as he examines (_judges evaluates weighs_) the Doctor. He is still so young, but he is older than any human was ever meant to be (_he brings new meaning to the phrase 'wise beyond his years'_). 

Jack comes to some sort of decision, and sends Mr. Jones away. When he turns back to the Doctor, his expression is so full of_ care determination love_ that the Doctor wants to scream (_cry run hide_).

He's not worth this.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes: If he always told people the truth he wouldn't need them to trust him. **

**-DW-**

Jack watches Ianto until he's out of earshot, then turns back to the Doctor, who is looking so relaxed that it can only be an act.

"You can't keep going like this," he states without preamble. The Doctor's eyebrows shoot up in a facsimile of surprise.

"Like what? I got hit by a psychic alien ray gun and spent the better part of the day piecing my mind back together; I think I have the right to feel a bit under the weather."

"That weapon wasn't why you nearly fell over just now." He's sure of that, now that the Doctor has tried to claim it to be so. If that were the problem, the ever-evasive Time Lord would be trying to pass it off as no problem at all – which means that whatever the _actual_ problem is, it must be even more serious than the ray gun. "Not that you can't fill out a suit, Doc, but you're a damn sight skinnier than I remember."

"I've been busy," says the Doctor with a nonchalant shrug. "Forgetting to eat. The TARDIS would have reminded me eventually. You shouldn't worry about me so much."

"_I shouldn't - ?_ For fuck's sake, how can I _not_ worry?" Jack growls, suddenly furious, all the stress (_fear terror guilt_) of the past day condensing into a hot lump of anger in his chest.

"I'm over nine hundred years old, Jack," says the Doctor, with that mild, condescending calm which means that he has been expecting this, and has prepared for it, probably even since before he got shot. Jack isn't getting answers; he's getting lines carefully engineered to deflect and reassure him. "_I_ didn't get to this point by coming back to life whenever I did something stupid."

"No, you got to this point by moving fast and thinking faster, but if you're not operating at your peak capacity, you're going to get yourself killed!"

"I can take care of myself," the Doctor says. His continued composure, combined with that blatant lie, is too much for Jack's frayed temper. He lashes out, kicking Tosh's desk and sending several (hopefully unimportant) objects crashing to the floor.

"Reality says differently!"

The Doctor flinches, looking away, but otherwise doesn't respond. There are a few tense moments, in which all Jack can hear is his own harsh breathing and his heartbeat in his ears. He takes a deep breath, tries to relax, to speak openly and honestly (_he's out of practice, but one of them has to_). "You're scaring me, Doc. You're not eating; I'd bet money that today was the first time you've slept in weeks . . . . I _know_ you're not alright, and I don't want the next time I see you to be when they fish you out of some river."

"You think I'm suicidal?" asks the Doctor, and he sounds just a touch too incredulous to be genuine.

"Martha told me what happened in New York," says Jack (_and __**shit**__, but that scared him, to hear of the Doctor's obvious death wish just weeks after he had sent him away, on his own, after the hell they had all been through. The relief when he showed up a month later on Torchwood's doorstep was overwhelming_). The Doctor's sharp intake of breath is the only indication that he heard Jack at all."And that was when you had her travelling with you, and before the Master – how long before someone listens when you shout at them to kill you?"

"Don't, Jack."

"How long before you take matters into your own hands?"

"_Don't!_" the Doctor snarls furiously, rounding on Jack. Jack stands his ground, holds his burning gaze, and a moment later the Doctor deflates. "Please," he says, flinching away as Jack reaches to touch his shoulder (_he just wants to help, just wants him happy and healthy and sane_). "Please, just . . . don't." He looks so terribly young (_fragile_), and sounds so impossibly old (_broken_). He sighs, runs a hand over his face. When he speaks again, the words are tired, defeated.

"Jack . . . suicide isn't an option for me any more than it is for you."

"What?" asks Jack, thrown. Of all the answers the Doctor could give, that is one he was not expecting in the least. Typical. "You're – you're not immortal. I mean, you just said that regeneration isn't for sure."

"It isn't. It shouldn't be. But I can't just off myself because I don't feel like living anymore." His voice is full of _scorn bitterness self-deprecation_, as if he thinks that the _pain despair loneliness_ which has driven him to this point is petty and selfish. "'Time Lord' is more than some pretentious title. It's a code, a duty – and I'm the last. It's my responsibility to keep the Universe running smoothly. More or less."

"Wait," says Jack, holding up a hand as he tries to absorb the implications of the Doctor's words. "You're saying . . . you are necessary to the existence of the Universe?"

"We-ell . . ." The Doctor shifts, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "Time Lords, not me specifically. In fact, all things considered, I'm probably about the worst possible candidate for the job – well, the third worst. Maybe fourth. Actually . . . never mind. Point is, I'm the only option left, so I can't go anywhere."

"But . . . that doesn't make any sense," says Jack, though some part of him is telling him that maybe he shouldn't be dissuading the Doctor of this notion, seeing as it seems to be the only thing between him and the aspirin bottle. "You were out of commission for a year, and the Universe was fine – besides the obvious, I mean."

"_Fine?_" repeats the Doctor incredulously. "I'd forgotten how blind you humans are. The Universe wasn't fine, Jack. It was coming apart at the seams. Forget the Master's paradox, all across time and space things were happening that shouldn't have; causal loops weren't being closed; events that should have been fixed weren't occurring; timelines already set into motion were petering out into nothing . . . . you'd have started feeling it eventually. A year isn't very long, from a Universal standpoint."

There isn't much that shocks Jack, these days, but the Doctor always seems to manage it. That whole year (_while he was bleeding and screaming and dying a thousand different ways_) the Universe was falling to pieces, and he didn't even know. But the Doctor knew – he felt it, in that completely alien way of his which Jack couldn't even begin to comprehend.

"Did it hurt?" Jack blurts out.

"In a way," answers the Doctor, with an apathetic shrug. "It was relatively bearable."

_Relatively._ Jack wonders if he used that word intentionally, or if it was just a Freudian slip. Relative to being tortured by the only other member of your species, he supposes that just about anything would be bearable (_except maybe watching them die_).

"Okay, but look, you're not going to live forever. What happens when you run out of regenerations?" (_Keep it abstract, keep it big-picture. Jack wouldn't be able to bear the thought otherwise._)

"I won't live _for_ eternity, but I do live _in_ it. I'm not needed all the time, just in certain moments. It will all work out in the end."

Jack believes him. He feels relief that the Doctor wouldn't kill himself even if he wanted to (_if the Doctor were really, truly suicidal, Jack would stand no chance of stopping him_) – there is also _grief concern guilt_ at the fact that he quite possibly _does_ want to, but if Jack can't make him whole then he'll settle for having him alive. Healing (_if it's possible_) can come later and gradually. He does not allow himself to feel even the slightly twinge of doubt. _The Universe needs the Doctor._ It's ridiculous, absurd – he's a genius and a hero, but he's still just a man, and a highly flawed one at that – but at the same time, Jack has always known it to be true on some level.

He never doubted him (_except when he did_), and he never will (_except when he does_).

He can't bear to.


	10. Chapter 10

"Thank you," says the Doctor, as he accepts the tea from Ianto. Their fingers brush, and Ianto shivers. The Doctor's hands are as icy as they are slender. (_Jack's hands are strong and always warm; there might be symbolism there, but Ianto isn't eager to find it, now._)

Jack has retreated to his office to take a call which, judging by the closed door and the gestures he's making behind it, is from either a very high ranking official or someone he knows personally. Probably the former. Jack's old friends aren't usually the type to use something as mundane as a telephone.

There are still remnants from dinner scattered across the table, and Ianto could really use some sleep, but first there is something that he has to discuss with the Doctor.

"You lied," he states, careful to keep his voice low as he sits down in Owen's chair, across from the Doctor. The other man lowers his teacup, raising his eyebrows expectantly, and Ianto elaborates. "To Jack. Earlier, when you said the Universe needs you – that wasn't true." He means it as a statement, but turns into a question on his tongue.

"Probably not," the Doctor agrees mildly, apparently unsurprised to learn of Ianto's eavesdropping. He probably knew all along that he was listening – superior alien hearing, or telepathy, or some other sense that Ianto can't even conceive of. "All those things I was saying about open loops and wasted timelines and such _were_ true, but that was mostly because the Master's paradox was destroying the integrity of the fabric of time. Under normal circumstances, the Universe would have compensated." He takes a sip of his tea, and when he continues his voice is more thoughtful. "It usually does. By all logic, it should have collapsed when Gallifrey was destroyed, but here it is, still spinning along – a bit more scarred, maybe, and less stable, but here all the same."

The Doctor smiles, thin and pained. Ianto wonders if he realizes the double-meaning in his words.

"Why did you lie to Jack?" he asks, though he thinks he already knows (_the Doctor would do nearly anything to protect those he loves_).

"Because he needed me to. If he thought I was a danger to myself, his conscience wouldn't allow him to let me leave on my own, and he knows he can't keep me here. He'd feel obligated to come with me, and I don't want that." The Doctor leans forward, his mask dropping, and focuses on Ianto with all his alien (_ancient hypnotic chilling_)intensity. "He's needed here. He loves it here."

Something about the tone of his voice and the potency of his gaze makes Ianto feel like the Doctor is talking about more than just Torchwood Three. He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.

"So what happens when they do fish you out of some river?" he asks, thankful when his voice remains steady. The Doctor pulls back, withdrawing both physically and emotionally, an almost tangible shield coming down between them.

"They won't," he says evenly.

"Because you won't kill yourself, or because you won't do it by jumping off a bridge?"

The Doctor's only answer is a small, humorless smile.

Ianto swallows again, and gathers up the courage (_love conviction loyalty_) to say what he originally intended to (_no matter how much it hurts_).

"The Universe may not need you, but Jack does."

The Doctor's eyebrows shoot up.

"Jack doesn't –" he begins, shaking his head, but Ianto cuts him off.

"He _does_. He has me and Gwen and the others, but he needs someone who he can look up to, who he can believe in."

The Doctor seems to have shrunk as he spoke. He is now hunched despondently over his teacup, looking very small and ill and human.

"He chose the wrong person," he says softly.

"Maybe," says Ianto, unsure of the answer and quite sure that he doesn't have enough information to speak on the matter. "But his options are a bit limited."

That startles a chuckle out of the Doctor, and then he's grinning again, so bright and sudden that Ianto almost winces from the emotional whiplash. A moment later the reason for the Doctor's shift in manner is made clear – Jack has hung up his phone, and is opening the door of his office.

"Jack!" the Doctor greets happily, as if Jack has been away for months instead of twenty minutes. "We were just talking about you. I was telling Mr. Jones about how I rescued you when you were going to be hanged for flirting with the Holy Handmaidens of the Blessed Stormbringer."

"Yeah?" asks Jack. "Did you include the part where I had to rescue _you_ an hour later when they found out you weren't really their god?"

"I was getting to that bit. Anyway, they completely overreacted." The Doctor turns back to Ianto, as if continuing a story. "I tried to explain to them that it wasn't _really_ a lie; I _am_ called the Oncoming Storm in some parts of the Universe . . ."

Ianto glances at Jack. He is grinning, his eyes dancing, looking more happy and relaxed than Ianto has seen him in weeks. All the anxiety of the past day and all the responsibility which he carries with him like a burden are wiped from his face as he laughs at some comment of the Doctor's.

The Doctor. Ianto catches his eyes. His story never falters, nor does his grin, but his eyes are dark and pleading. Ianto nods minutely, and the Doctor relaxes ever-so-slightly. He will keep his silence, for Jack's sake (_and maybe for the Doctor's, just a little bit_).

". . . . So there we are, running for our lives with an angry mob at our tails – with torches and everything! – and we're about three yards from the TARDIS when Jack just can't resist shouting back, 'I still think she has a great ass!'"

The Doctor and Jack both burst into laughter, and Ianto can't (_doesn't try to_) repress his own chuckle. It's just so _Jack_ – he can picture it so clearly.

"The tongue-lashing you gave me – I swear my ears were ringing for a week!" Jacks laughs. His smile softens, his eyes going wistful and distant. "God, I thought I was so old back then, but I was so damn _young_ – and _don't_ say that I still am," he adds teasingly, snapping back to the present.

"I wasn't going to," says the Doctor, his own smile bittersweet as he sets down his teacup. He's looking at Jack with pride and affection and something almost (_exactly_) like love, though it's not at all like what Ianto feels (_what Jack wants_). "You're a great man, Jack. More than that, you're a _good_ one – better than I ever was." He stands, clapping a hand on Jack's shoulder. "Don't ever forget that."

Jack's smile freezes, falters.

"This sounds like a goodbye."

"Not goodbye, just . . . farewell. It's time I got going, and I'm sure you and Mr. Jones have your own matters to attend to." There's a twitch in his lips and a wiggle in his eyebrows as he says that, leaving Ianto with no doubt that he is far less oblivious than he pretends to be. "So, Captain, until next time. And Mr. Jones . . ." There is so much warring in his gaze as he meets Ianto's eyes (_but none of what Ianto would have expected this morning_). Ianto can barely make any sense of it, and the gratitude seems to exceed what their interactions have warranted_._ "Take care."

"I will," says Ianto, with the feeling that he's agreeing to far more than self-preservation.

"At least let me walk you to the TARDIS," says Jack. He must realize how clingy (_desperate pathetic dependent_)he sounds, because he adds jokingly, "Pretty boy like you, at this time of night? You'd be amazed the sort of ruffians we have here in Cardiff."

"_I'm_ pretty?" the Doctor protests. "I'll have you know . . ."

Ianto listens as their banter fades out of hearing, and is not jealous in the least.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes: Final chapter!**

**To all my dear readers: thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed (if that's the right word) this as much as I did.**

**To everyone who reviewed: thank you so much! Your feedback and encouragement mean a lot to me, and always brighten my day. **

**We end as we began: with one moment, and three sets of eyes.**

**-DW-**

The Doctor's mind is buzzing as he walks towards the TARDIS, Jack at his side.

The scientific, clinical part of his mind – the part that usually makes his companions look at him oddly and remark that they'd forgotten he was an alien – is still contemplating young Mr. Jones' question. So far he's come up with about three dozen ways he could kill himself which would completely negate any chance both of regeneration and of Jack finding out about it.

All his thoughts on the matter are purely academic, now.

Another part, the one which hurts and aches and burns, which keeps bleeding into everything else despite all his attempts at compartmentalization – that part of his mind is sobbing and screaming and breaking just a little bit more, as it does with every departure, echoing in the silence in his head and reminding him that he's _alone alone they always leave or if they don't leave they die and then he's alone again, alone alone alone –_

He ignores it, as best he can.

Most of his considerable brainpower is consumed by a single thought:

_Jack needs him._

It's not a particularly happy thought, or even a comforting one – the last thing he needs is more responsibility, and he's really not worth all that trust and love and belief (_is he?_) – but it's sustaining. If Jack needs him, however irrational and unwise that need is, he will do everything he can not to let him down. He owes (_loves_) him too much to do otherwise.

At the door of the TARDIS they stop, and Jack hugs him without a word. The Doctor accepts the embrace, choking back an unexpected rush of emotion (_it's been so long since anyone held him_), and then pulls away.

"Be seeing you," he says, and means it.

"I'll hold you to that."

The Doctor gives one last smile, and he knows that it's small and wan and pained, but for once it doesn't feel like a lie. He shuts the door, and soaks in the TARDIS' familiar hum as he walks up the ramp and begins the dematerialization sequence. He can feel her _welcome irritation concern_, and responds with his own _gratitude apology reassurance_. She felt the amplification of his pain, the near unraveling of his mind, and it frightened her – but he's fine now. Really, he is.

He's more fine than he's been in a long time.

**-DW-**

Their conversation has become flat and dissolved into silence by the time they reach the exit. Jack can't bring himself to break it as they cross the Plass. He can't think of anything to say.

Actually, that's not true. He can think of a thousand things to say, but none of them seem right._ Be safe_ is just as pointless as it is clichéd. _Take me with you_ is pretty damn tempting, but Jack can't just abandon his agency (_home_) and his friends (_family_). _I love you_ is a good way to ensure that the Doctor avoids him for the rest of eternity (_Jack would choke on the words, anyway_).

He settles for a hug (_it says everything and nothing_). The Doctor returns it with enough strength to squeeze Jack's breath out of him (_the desperation in his grip says all too much_), but releases him quickly and steps back.

"Be seeing you," he says.

"I'll hold you to that," Jack replies, trying to put as much force as he can muster behind his mostly false cheer. (_Somewhere in the darkest, deepest recesses of his mind, he realizes that there are great, gaping holes in what the Doctor told him about his responsibility to the Universe, but he won't, he __**can't**__ bring himself to prod at them._)

The Doctor's lips quirk into a smile, and it's _genuine_, tiny and strained as it is, and that warms Jack more than anything else ever could.

The Doctor slips into the TARDIS, and Jack steps back. Soon the air is filled with an achingly familiar roar, and a moment later, Jack is alone on the pavement.

He turns back towards Torchwood, and Ianto.

**-DW-**

Ianto watches on the CCTV feed as Jack and the Doctor stride across the Plass, side by side, their paces perfectly matched. Their playful teasing seems to have died down, and neither of them show the animation which they did a few minutes ago. Jacks steps are heavy and tired, as they sometimes are after a particularly rough mission. The Doctor's are sharp and efficient, with none of the bounce and flourish which he usually uses (_as a distraction and a shield_).

When the reach the Doctor's ship, there is a brief, but obviously heartfelt, embrace. Before, this might have angered Ianto, but he understands, now (_maybe even more than Jack does_). Jack loves the Doctor, and the Doctor loves Jack, but it is not, nor will it ever be, the sort of love which could threaten Ianto's position with Jack (_it is so much more than that_). Jack would take anything the Doctor offered, but the Doctor will never offer _that_, and Jack will never demand it.

The Doctor is not who Ianto thought he was. He is not some aloof, god-like being who does as he wishes and pays no heed to the destruction he leaves in his wake. He is a man, a terrifying, alien, otherworldly man, but a man all the same. He thinks and bleeds and hurts (_oh, how he hurts_), even if he doesn't do so in the same way humans do. Above all, he _cares_, deeply and wholly, not just about planets and timelines and adventures but about _people_, old friends and total strangers and ignorant enemies alike. It's more than Ianto can say for most people. (_It's more than he can say for himself_.)

On the CCTV feed, Ianto watches the Doctor's ship fade from sight and Jack's shoulders sag. He turns it off. When Jack returns, he will be waiting for him with coffee, an understanding ear, and not even a touch of judgment or jealousy.

It feels like a beginning.


End file.
